


i see it, i like it, i want it, i got it

by hellstrider



Series: Into You [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Anyways, Daddy Kink, Forgive Me, In which Geralt is still a Witcher and Jaskier is basically Ariana Grande, Kinks, M/M, Repload, Siren!Jaskier, Witcher!Geralt, i'm a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:54:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22822114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellstrider/pseuds/hellstrider
Summary: he's not entirely certain if it'ssincere, when it starts.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Into You [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1596667
Comments: 10
Kudos: 517





	i see it, i like it, i want it, i got it

**Author's Note:**

> reuploading all my shit. i'm having a rough go.
> 
> tumblr: thebardjaskier
> 
> yes i'm the one who came up with little lark.

He’s not entirely certain if it’s _sincere,_ when it starts.

Because it starts when they’re at some _party,_

And everything _reeks_ of booze and diamonds, 

Of expensive perfume and cheap cologne,

And the _only fucking reason_ Geralt agrees to go to these stupid things is because he doesn’t trust anyone else with the safety of _one Jaskier Pankratz,_

Who seems to attract fanatics and beasts in _equal_ measure,

So Geralt agrees to go to these _stupid fucking shindigs_ so his Siren doesn’t fall into a fire he can’t sing his way out of,

And _this time_ they’re at some party hosted in the sprawling manor of one of Yennefer’s associates, a sorceress named Kiera Metz, who has blue eyes and golden hair and laughs like silver bells, and her estate in Kensington _buzzes_ with magic that sets Geralt’s _teeth_ on edge, but it’s - 

It’s _safe enough,_

So Jaskier’s making the rounds as Geralt sits in some curtained corner on a backless chair that’s _just_ this side of uncomfortable, 

And it’s almost midnight and he’s getting _tetchy_ , but Jaskier’s flitting about somewhere, chatting with people Geralt doesn’t know, and the _only_ reason he’s not _right_ on his heels is because this is Kiera Metz’s place, and Yennefer trusts her, so Geralt just keeps tabs on the cedar-smoke-rose of Jaskier’s scent and scrolls through the bestiary on his phone, marking notes for Ciri to study later,

And he’s starting to get _tetchy,_

Until cedar-smoke-rose hits him square in the face and then Jaskier’s all but melting into Geralt’s lap and it’s instinct, the way the Witcher slides an arm around that lithe waist, a waist all wrapped up in some gauzy, sheer black blouse type _thing_ , with an open collar and tight sleeves,

 _“Darling_ ,” the Siren says breathlessly, and he nuzzles against Geralt’s temple, squirms over his thighs, and Geralt’s getting hard in his worn jeans, 

Because Jaskier’s pants are practically painted on, and his boots lace all the way up to the thigh, and he’s got a starlit diamond dangling from one ear and he’s, _just,_

Beyond _anything_ else in this goddamn house full of extravagant things,

And Geralt pockets his phone and drags Jaskier close, burrs low in response to the soft laugh the Siren lets out, and Jaskier smells faintly of rosy champagne when Geralt noses up under his jaw,

And he tastes like bubbly alcohol when Geralt pulls him in for a _slow,_ gold-dripping kiss,

Tastes like mint and moonlight,

Like heat and _want,_

And Geralt supposes there’s a _few_ more reasons he agrees to come along to these kinds of things,

As Jaskier drapes himself all over Geralt, arms propped on his shoulders, weight settled so fine in his lap, and Geralt can feel the way his muscle rolls beneath his skin through the sheer fabric of the black blouse type _thing,_

_And,_

The world sort of _disappears_ as Jaskier’s clever tongue curls up under his own, as Jaskier lets out a _soft,_ needylittle groan, the kind of thing that drips down Geralt’s throat and settles like a hot stone in his gut,

And there’ll be pictures, because of course there will, but Geralt doesn’t think he gives much of a fuck about that anymore, especially not when he’s got Jaskier sat so fine in his lap, tasting of bubbles and rose and mint,

And,

_Look,_

He _knows_ how Jaskier gets, when he’s had alcohol - champagne, in particular - and he knows that Jaskier is needy and he’s part of a world Geralt doesn’t really understand, 

But that’s what makes them fit, he thinks, as he slides a hand over Jaskier’s ass, and his pants are so fucking tight it’s like they’ve been painted on,

Because Geralt’s part of a world Jaskier doesn’t entirely get, either,

But while Geralt’s world is more blood and steel,

Jaskier’s veers into a decadent kind of _fantasy-land_ , where they go to parties with champagne flutes that have diamonds at the bottom and Geralt finds himself sat on chairs that probably cost more than the entire catalogue of his possessions,

And it can veer into places Geralt’s never even _thought_ of,

 _Especially_ when they’ve spent several long, hazy minutes drowning in each other, all slick tongues and softly cresting hips, all needy hands and possessive, rolling burrs that Geralt knows get Jaskier _wet,_

And he doesn’t know if it’s entirely _sincere,_

Doesn’t entirely know how to react,

When he feels a _whine_ building in Jaskier’s throat,

A whine that takes the shape of a soft, _needy,_ purring,

_“Daddy,”_

And,

_Now,_

The reactions of body and mind are almost _jarringly_ at odds,

Because while Geralt’s suddenly _achingly_ hard in his jeans,

His brain sort of -

 _Short circuits_ , a little,

And Jaskier doesn’t stop kissing him, even as Geralt short-circuits, just drags his mouth over Geralt’s cheek when he goes still, starts to kiss down Geralt’s throat, and then he starts giving it little _kitten-licks,_

And they have to vacate the premises before Geralt gives the entire party a real show,

But _there’s no -_

No _follow up_ , after that,

And Jaskier doesn’t mention it the next day,

So Geralt lets it _go_ , chalks it up to rosy champagne and the world Jaskier’s part of that he doesn’t entirely _get_ , the fantasy one, the one where they go to parties where the wine glasses have diamonds at the bottom and Geralt sits in chairs that are worth more than whatever bounty’s on his head that week,

And it doesn’t happen again, _not until -_

Now, 

Geralt doesn’t have any of the, the fucking _Apps_ that Jaskier does,

That Ciri does,

That Yennefer and the _entire fucking rest of the world_ does,

So he doesn’t see it, when Jaskier posts the picture,

Not until he gets a text from Triss,

And it’s a screenshot from Jaskier’s - _fucking Instagram,_

And it’s a paparazzi shot, one that immediately has Geralt’s gut clenching,

_Because -_

Now,

He’s gotten _used_ to this, remember,

But this one is, _just,_

Jaskier, in one of Geralt’s huge old hoodies, the ones Jaskier complains about _constantly,_ the ones that have monster blood permanently staining the hems and sleeves that go over his hands because they’re so big,

And Geralt knows he usually looks _stormy,_ and this photo is no exception, and he remembers this day, remembers that while he’d looked stormy, it’d been paradise, because it was a day spent, just, wandering London with Jaskier,

And while Geralt looks _stormy,_

Jaskier -

_Now,_

The Siren has a sweet tooth,

And that’s _well-fucking-known,_

The evidence of which is in this _particular picture,_

And Jaskier’s got one hand tangled up with Geralt’s as they cross the street,

While the other holds onto a fucking lollipop,

And while the Witcher’s looking somewhere else,

Jaskier’s looking up at Geralt, all big blue eyes, windswept hair, 

Tongue curled around the - the fucking lollipop,

And Geralt’s still staring blankly at it when Triss sends another text that just says, ‘ _can u pls control ur himbo_ ’ and,

The _caption_ of the photo -

_Now,_

He hasn’t brought it up since the shindig at Kiera’s,

 _Neither_ of them have,

But the caption of the picture, which Jaskier has put on his Instagram, a thing Geralt doesn’t fucking have, because why the fuck would he,

Just reads;

_Daddy,_

And,

He’s immediately half-hard in his jeans where he’s sat in his office, surrounded by bubbling alembics and raven’s beaks and ancient tomes full of monsters and various other horrible things,

And a low, _"hm_ ,” is all he can muster as he narrows his eyes at the caption,

And he doesn’t know what the _fuck_ a _himbo_ is, so he doesn’t text Triss back,

But he _does_ lumber to his feet, 

Chews his cheek as he shoves through the charmed, protected door of his office-lab-armory,

And there’s Jaskier, sat on the floor in one of Geralt’s old hoodies, in nothing else but his boxer-briefs and knee-high socks, and he’s wearing his fucking _glasses_ , the glasses that make his blue eyes seem _neon_ , sometimes,

As he plucks at his guitar, pouring over the ratty old notebooks scattered across the pale bamboo floor,

And Geralt folds his arms over his chest, leans against the doorjamb of his office-lab-armory, watches his Siren as he composes another song that’ll crush the charts, a song he knows is all about one _White Wolf_ , one _Geralt of Rivia_ , a place that no longer even _exists,_

_And,_

Look,

He’s not the _cleverest_ , he _knows_ that,

But he’s not made it this fucking long without being some sort of _quick,_

_So,_

It starts rosy, champagne-dripping,

And then comes the - the fucking picture,

And then Yennefer sends Geralt a video clip of a red carpet interview for some event Geralt hadn’t been at,

And the journalist, off-screen, coyly quips, “ _you caused a stir with that post, does someone have a bit of a daddy thing?”_ and,

Jaskier shoots the journalist an incredulous look, as if he’s affronted that anyone would even think _otherwise,_

Then says, laughing a bit, “ _I mean, have you_ seen _the man?_ ” 

And,

_See,_

He hadn’t thought it was entirely sincere,

_Not until -_

“Darling,” and Jaskier’s _just_ this short of _whining_ as he utters it, and everything is _hazy,_ the air _thick_ with the scent of sex, as Geralt rolls his hips _so_ achingly slow, drags starved teeth up the pale column of the Siren’s sweaty throat,

And he’s not sure how long it’s been since he sank into the tight, wet heat of Jaskier’s lithe body, the body that arches up _so_ beautifully beneath Geralt’s calloused palms, the body that hums with a _need_ he can _taste_ as he licks saltwater from Jaskier’s skin, _and,_

Now,

_See,_

Geralt hasn’t made it this far without being some kind of _quick,_

And for some goddamn reason he can’t exactly pinpoint, all he’s been able to fucking _think_ about lately is the way Jaskier had whined out a _needy,_ pleading -

“Say it,”

And,

It’s a _gentle_ command, 

The gentlest Geralt thinks he’s _ever_ uttered,

And he slides a keeping hand up to frame Jaskier’s jaw, rolls sweet and _soft_ into him, coaxes pleasure through the Siren with the kind of care that Jaskier _deserves,_

As he breathes, _right_ against Jaskier’s ear,

“ _Say it,_ little lark,” 

_“Geralt -”_

And it’s _always_ so beautiful, the way he sings Geralt’s name, _but,_

“Mm, not _quite,_ sweet thing,”

And the smell of Jaskier’s need is heady, musky, so fucking rich,

And Geralt hasn’t touched him yet, 

So the Siren’s cock weeps thick pearls over his clenching belly, 

And Geralt can feel how desperate he’s getting, can see it in the dewy gleam of those bright blue eyes,

As he leans back and slides a thumb over Jaskier’s kiss-bruised lips,

As he rolls his hips, and everything is _sweat_ and _sex_ and -

 _All_ he’s been able to fucking _think abou_ t is the way Jaskier had _melted_ into his lap and whined -

“Say it for _me_ again, Jaskier,” and,

“Not for the rest of the world,” and,

“I know _you_ know what I want to hear, little lark,”

And,

Jaskier’s cheeks are rosy,

As rosy as the champagne had been the night he’d melted into Geralt’s lap and _whined -_

“Geralt,” and,

“Please,” and,

_“Daddy,”_

And,

It’s _rasping,_ quiet, 

Pleading,

_Needy,_

And Jaskier’s ears are _red_ as he utters it against the pad of Geralt’s thumb,

And Geralt doesn’t fucking know _what it is,_

Doesn’t know why the word _drips_ down his spine to settle like a fucking _brand_ against the base,

Doesn’t know why it makes his cock so hard it’s _stupid,_

Doesn’t _get it,_

But then,

Maybe it’s not something to _overthink,_

Just something to _keep,_

To -

 _“Good_ ,” Geralt murmurs, _praises,_ and Jaskier makes a sound like he’s been fucking _gutted_ ; “you’re _so_ good to me, sweet thing,” and,

Jaskier squirms as a breath _punches_ out of him, as he suddenly starts to cling like he’s only ever clung to Geralt a _handful_ of times, 

And then the Siren’s surging up to catch Geralt’s thrumming burr against his tongue, and the kiss is _just_ this side of _desperate,_ just this side of relieved, and Geralt gathers Jaskier up against his chest, holds him tight as he starts to fuck into him with purpose, 

Not hard enough to _bruise,_

But enough to coax another _aching,_ staggering _keen_ of, “ _daddy,_ ” from the Siren, and this time it comes out like a _song,_ comes out on a voice strapped with the sea, and Geralt _feels_ this one, feels it burn down to the _marrow_ of his bones,

And it’s like _nothing fucking else,_

And no one else has _ever_ been able to bring the beast out of him quite like Jaskier does,

So when the _growl_ comes, it comes _unbidden,_

And Geralt holds Jaskier _so fucking tight_ as he sucks a bruise to his throat, as he fucks into the divine _heat_ of him, and Jaskier’s panting _hard_ and _fast_ , is so _wet_ Geralt can practically _taste_ the dew on his belly,

And when Jaskier cums without even being _touched,_

He cums with a _frantic,_ pitchy, “oh, _fuck,_ daddy, _please_ , please, _please,”_ and,

Geralt doesn’t know what the fuck it is about it,

But that’s all it takes to make the band at the base of his spine twist and snap,

And he buries himself in the Siren with a grating, _cutting_ moan,

Feels a little like he’s been turned _inside out_ with it,

And Jaskier makes a soft, _pleading_ sound in his throat as Geralt ducks to taste the glittering spunk on his chest,

One Geralt’s immediately hushing, gentle and _soothing,_

Because now he _knows_ how Jaskier gets, when he gets just this side of _whiny_ ,

When he gets _needy_ like this,

When he _clings_ to Geralt like this,

And blunt, violet nails dig into Geralt’s shoulders as he presses wet, open-mouthed kisses up the side of Jaskier’s bruised throat,

As he stays _right_ between his thighs, and he won’t move, not until Jaskier tells him to, not until Jaskier comes back from the haze Geralt’s coaxed him into,

And Geralt spends near half an hour, just, pouring over the Siren in his arms, kissing over his throat, his collarbone, nuzzling through the flat hair on his chest, licking at the drying spunk on his belly,

Spends near half an hour with Jaskier wrapped around him, clinging _tight_ , until the Siren breathes like he’s coming awake, until he noses at Geralt’s cheekbone and presses a soft kiss to the corner of Geralt’s mouth,

And Jaskier groans so _sweet_ when their tongues slide together, _whimpers_ , a bit, when Geralt slowly pulls out from between his quivering legs, and the Witcher thumbs over Jaskier’s cheek as he moves to lean back against their cushioned headboard with Jaskier between his thighs,

 _“So_ ,” Jaskier drawls after a few more moments of comfortable silence, as he fiddles with the medallion on Geralt’s chest, as he melts into the bulk of Geralt’s body, and the Witcher huffs, noses at Jaskier’s crown,

“You could’ve _told_ me, Jaskier,”

“You could’ve asked, _Geralt,_ ” Jaskier says, a little _petulantly,_ and Geralt snorts, gathers the Siren _impossibly_ close to kiss down his face, and Jaskier squirms until Geralt lets him move to straddle the Witcher’s thighs as he drags one of their fluffy blankets up around them both, 

And Geralt hums low as he slides his hands around Jaskier’s slender hips, the hips that fit like they were meant to between his palms,

As Jaskier fixes him with an arch look and says, “I knew you’d figure it out. You’re _big_ , not _stupid_ ,” 

And Geralt actually _laughs_ at that, a bark of a thing that has Jaskier grinning, all white teeth, 

“What a way with words you have, little lark,”

“That’s what they _pay_ me for, darling,” and then Jaskier’s lips are melting against Geralt’s as he settles heavier in Geralt’s lap, _and_ ; “sorry - _daddy,_ ” and,

Geralt groans out a biting, _“fuck,”_

And he doesn’t fucking _get it,_ why _that fucking word_ gets to him the way it does,

But as he drags Jaskier close by the hips, cock already gone half-hard again,

As Jaskier grins _fiendishly_ against his lips and sinks his hands into Geralt’s hair, body moving like liquid against Geralt’s, lithe muscle rolling beneath porcelain skin,

He _really_ doesn’t think he needs to _overthink it,_


End file.
